Captain Blake closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. ‘Let me ask you something, detective. Do you think that reporter from the LA Times, Claire Anderson, knew where to find Mollie? Maybe knew you’d taken her to a hotel?’
Hunter tilted his head, reflecting. ‘Possible. Reporters have their own sources, their own investigative team. Claire is certainly ambitious enough. Why?’
Barbara Blake faced Hunter. ‘She was found murdered this afternoon.’
‘What?’ Hunter cocked his head forward as if he hadn’t heard it correctly.
‘Her throat was cut open.’
‘No way?’ Garcia murmured, his eyes wide.
‘That’s all the information I have at the moment. Detectives and forensics are still at the scene. But if our killer is really after Mollie, and Claire Anderson had any information that could’ve led him to her, the possibility he killed her for that information has suddenly become very real.’
Hundred and Twenty-One
The tension in the room was broken by a knock on the door. Captain Blake let Hopkins in.
‘Did I come at a bad moment?’ he asked, sensing the dark atmosphere.
‘What have you got?’ the captain commanded.
Hopkins nervously walked over to the picture board. ‘Our only suspect is now James Reed.’ He pointed to his photo.
‘What?’
‘Robert told me to keep digging at establishing the whereabouts of the other three in the suspects’ list before he left,’ Hopkins explained. ‘Marcus Tregonni, Phillip Rosewood and Harry Lang-’ he indicated the photos as he mentioned their names ‘-are now accounted for, and they all have alibis for at least one of the crime nights. They couldn’t have done it. The only one left is James Reed.’
‘He ticks all the right boxes,’ Garcia said with a pinch of excitement. ‘He’s six-two, he’s a loner, never married, lived with his mother until she died five months ago.’ He faced Hunter. ‘Which could easily have been the “last straw” you talked about. He’s strong, highly intelligent, resourceful and very good at planning and calculating. When young, he was bullied and taunted by Strutter’s gang in and out of school, and so was his mother. Can you imagine the sort of hate his household had towards Strutter and his gang? Certainly strong enough to have left very damaging psychological scars in his subconscious. He also blames them for his pet dog’s death. The dog was called Numberz.’
‘Hold on.’ Captain Blake raised her hand. ‘What’s this about a dog called Numberz?’
Garcia ran through the story Kelly Sanchez had told them in her office earlier in the day. The captain immediately made the connection to the numbered victims and the decapitated pet dog.
‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ Garcia concluded.
‘There’s an APB out on his car, right?’ Captain Blake asked. ‘Has it been spotted yet?’
‘Not yet.’ Hopkins shook his head.
‘We’ve gotta find him,’ she said, her voice filled with anticipation. ‘OK, James Reed is now officially our main suspect in the Executioner Killer’s case. Let’s reissue the APB. If he’s sighted, I want him stopped and arrested. We need him off the streets as quick as possible. Do we have a recent picture of him?’
‘We can get one from Cal Poly’s website,’ Hunter confirmed.
She faced Hopkins. ‘Do it. Let’s get a copy of it to all bureaus.’
Furtively, Hopkins’s eyes sought Hunter, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod as confirmation. ‘I’m on it.’ He dashed out of the room.
Captain Blake directed her stare at Hunter, her expression stern. ‘I really hope my gut feeling is still as good as it used to be. Do what you have to do, Robert.’ A short pause. ‘Let’s hope we can save Mollie and whoever it is this psycho is after.’
‘Captain-’ Hunter stopped her before she left ‘-if you get any more information on Claire Anderson’s murder, please let me know.’
She nodded and calmly closed the door behind her.
Hunter returned to his desk and rubbed his face in frustration. He wanted to be out there, physically hunting the streets of LA for a suspect or searching for Mollie, but he knew that at the moment there was nothing else he could do but wait. And he hated waiting. It made him fidgety. He reached for the photograph pile Hopkins had left on his desk and purposelessly started flipping through them. His eyes weren’t really looking and his mind wasn’t really concentrating. He was just keeping his hands occupied while his brain worked overtime trying to piece the puzzle together. Garcia’s right. James Reed did tick all the right boxes. His mother’s death five months ago could’ve easily been the trigger that freed his bottled hatred. But why didn’t Hunter get the feeling he always did when he knew they were chasing the right guy?
Hunter stopped flicking through the pile of photographs in his hands and held his breath. His stare locked at the top picture, studying the person’s face, looking for something he knew he’d seen before. He almost choked when he finally saw it. ‘Oh my God,’ he murmured before springing to his feet and showing Garcia the photograph.
‘Carlos, who’s this?’ he asked. ‘Why wasn’t this picture on the suspects board?’ The urgency in his voice made Garcia tense.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t set them up, but the names are on the back of the photos.’
Hunter checked. ‘Michael Madden?’
Garcia consulted the list Hopkins had prepared. ‘Here he is. The reason why he wasn’t on the board is because he died a long time ago.’
Hunter refocused his attention on the picture. ‘I don’t think he did.’ He showed Garcia the picture again. ‘I think this guy’s alive and well. And if I’m right, we both know where he is.’
Hundred and Twenty-Two
Garcia stared at the picture in Hunter’s hands, confused. ‘What are you talking about? Who’s Michael Madden?’
‘Look at the eyes, Carlos. You can change everything on a person’s face but the eyes stay the same. They’re like fingerprints.’
Garcia did as he was told, concentrating harder this time. ‘Nope, I still have no idea who this guy is.’
Hunter looked at the photo one more time. Was his mind playing tricks on him? He would have only one shot at this. He needed to be one hundred percent certain. ‘Let’s go.’ He rushed out of the office.
‘Where are we going this time?’ Garcia asked, following Hunter, who took the stairs going up in giant leaps.
‘SID. I need to be sure. We need to talk to Patricia Phelps.’
Garcia frowned. ‘The composite sketch artist?’
‘That’s her.’ Hunter nodded.
The LAPD Scientific Investigation Division is responsible for the collection, comparison and interpretation of physical evidence found at crime scenes or collected from suspects and victims. It’s located on the top floor of the RHD building. The LAPD composite artists are part of the SID team.
Patricia Phelps was the most senior and most experienced of the SID sketch artists. She was getting ready to go home after doing a couple of hours’ overtime when Hunter and Garcia burst through her office door.
‘Pat, we need your help,’ Hunter puffed, half out of breath.
The short-haired brunette with a stop-traffic figure looked at Hunter through the top of her thin-rimmed designer glasses. ‘Did you just run up six flights of stairs, Robert?’ she asked in her husky voice that made most men melt. ‘I guess if you ran all the way up here this can’t wait until tomorrow, can it?’
Hunter took a deep breath but didn’t reply.
‘I thought not. What do you need?’ She undid her coat.
Hunter handed Patricia the photograph. ‘I need you to alter this picture.’
She studied it for a second before shrugging. ‘OK. Let me scan it in.’ She returned to her desk and a minute later the image appeared on one of her computer screens.